writing a poem whilst listening to a poem...

the spit of ahjushis
frozen to the pavement
a permed halmuni kicks a plastic bag
up the one of millions of alley ways
this one being known to me
this one leading to a
hwajangsil...

the shape of their actions
heavy forming
in my mouth
she kicks the space
between tongue
and roof

i dont want to taste his spit
frozen in the pavements of
my mind

turning up my own street
my mind's legs
walk towards the hwajangsil
seeing the things we once
sharpied on the walls
(love notes
no longer valid
inside some illustrated red apple
now crossed out by keys)
(but im speaking of another
hwajangsil
thats further up the street...)

each day
i am making peace
with a past that i cannot
fully see
may never fully know

i am lines of blood
my own red string(s)
i am his spit
her kick
those silly notes of love
scrawled on bathroom walls
throughout this neighborhood

and in each act
of him
and her
and me
i am finding
the return
to
some body-known
beginnings.

born of this soil
born of this river
i am this place
this place
is me.



kim thompson. sun 19 feb. 2012. 15.00 seoul. s. korea

jarred thoughts (for the armerdings)

*per katia's request... for malcom armerding and his mother and his family who loved him...

hand me your tears
drip them into my palms
and i'll dig a riverbed for you
with my feet

we'll burrow
beneath the earth
in the soil of
others regrets
staying warm till spring

youll whisper all your pain
i'll turn them into
poems
for you to float out
into the eastern seas

we'll meet somewhere
mid-pacific
speaking the
specific
walking on water
like we're our own saviours
- unsinkable.

i have this life ive lived
to speak to you
this life ive lived
to finalize in ink

but each day
when night begins
i empty words
out from their jars
spread them out on some
imaginary table
count them up
to see what i can cash

before heading out
to bury all our wishes
beneath
moonlight
to water with
your
tears.

this is how
trees
become
books
and how
words
become
the lives contained
inside these
forests
of the jars of
vocabulary
we collected in the
summer's heat.

i want to tell you
want you to know...

i will keep
your
salt water
safe
in this bottle of
soiled
rooting
verses

until you wake
and see the sun.


kim thompson. 18.33 on friday 17 feb 2012. seoul. s. korea

for you, little brother, that i always wanted

walking through the park at night
looking for the back of your head

the life i may have lived
am living
in another world
(how many times each day
do we pass ourselves
never seeing?
only
wondering
"what if?")

hongik's gate
arching off the sky
"where i wouldve gone"
-- and are you beatboxin' in the park tonight?
-- did we just pass never knowing only both thinking
"umma" ?

are we the chubby cheeked
hand in hand
children running up the street?
(i coulda sworn those were our ghosts when smiling for false memory)

and does our dongsaeng know i went to paris first?
back when she was still dreaming of the day?
(and whose footsteps do i follow?
usually i just say "langston's")

how close are we every night
in the artist's park?
b-boys
round a boombox
how is it that we can be so
related?

here in this land of the ever great river of
"if-han"
i am building bridges to find you
will we ever intersect?
(i carry you in my pockets)
or maybe this bridge is for
my own return to
my own
need for knowing
"then"

... tell me little brother
how long
should i look for your (dreaded) head of hair
in the park of boomboxes and beats?
(we are so related)

and will our sisters
even care?

and will our mother weep?

tell me life
that i never got to live
how long
do i look for you
here in the land of
the great
"whatif"?

because so many days
i think i pass the answer
on the street
and smile
from the park
in between the shouts and beats
from near to where
this if
began to
fall apart
somewhere up the street from this
giant
arch.


kim thompson. wed 15 feb. 2012. seoul. s. korea. sometime in the late afternoon